It was her, he says. You know
I never could tell you apart
on the phone. I talked to her
for fifteen minutes, all the time thinking
it was you. Neither of us realized
until I asked when you’d be home.
She didn’t see it coming, he says.
She took it hard.
Quick brown flutter
and crack—an ordinary bird
flies headlong into the windshield, topples
over the roof of the car. He pulls over, gets out
and walks back down the road to look
for the body. Don’t you hate
when that happens? he says,
hunched over the steering wheel, crying.
No, she tells him, looking the other way.
I don’t care it’s dead.